Snatch

by Gregory Mcdonald

  He wheeled over to the kitchen table and began moving around the pieces of his picture puzzle. “Least I didn’t give up a life of mozzarella cheese!”

  * * *

  In his cot, Robby was beginning to think thoughts, hear voices and make choices. Kidnapped! He was beginning to understand that he had been taken prisoner, just like an English pilot in Germany or an English soldier in France. The Savallos’ one-room apartment did not seem to Robby much like a prison, or a concentration camp. Nevertheless it was durance vile, or it would be durance vile had it not been for the fresh bread, the tea, the jar of grape jelly and the warm cot in which he now snuggled. It was durance.

  Robby did not think he was heroic. He did not equate himself with people who could fly airplanes and shoot guns. Nor did he think he was in the hands of enemies, as they spoke nicely of His Majesty, the King. He was in a foreign land. Marie and Frankie Savallo had insisted to him he was kidnapped—even going so far as to consult him on how they were to get ransom for him. And they had approached the British government asking for money for Robby at a time when everyone knew the British government was especially hard pressed, financially, keeping all those ships at sea and planes in the air. To that extent they were enemies of His Majesty’s Government. Were God and Country awaiting Robby’s liberation as breathlessly as They would await the liberation of someone who knew how to fly a plane or shoot a gun? Robby didn’t think so.

  Having been brought up thus far like every other English boy, on jam and rhetoric, Robby’s mind echoed with resounding phrases. Excelsior! I am not to succumb! I am not to be denied! I am not to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune! I am to press on relentlessly! Especially were boys of that era familiar with the wartime code of ethics. Admonitions had been poured into their jugheads through their ears. It is the duty of every Englishman taken prisoner to escape!

  Robby would escape. He decided that. It was his duty. That much was clear to him. But first he needed sleep, and the cot by the stove was warm and snuggly. Too, he had a curiosity as to whether Marie Savallo’s Italian cooking really tasted like laundry. It would be interesting to find that out.

  He would escape, all right, but in a proper, gentlemanly, sedate and dignified manner—after he had napped, and after he had dined.

  14

  With the Aid of the Law

  You’d think, in Robby’s circumstances (plotting an escape from kidnappers) one would be greatly relieved, upon awakening from a nap, to find a large policeman standing over one’s cot, looking down at one. Through shiny round glasses the policeman’s eyes smiled; the corners of his lips tucked up into his cheeks in a pleased grin.

  Robby had never seen a New York policeman before. The only other day he had spent in New York it was snowing and only the muggers had been out. But he had seen many London policemen and was able to recognize the significance of midnight blue in bulky material, brass buttons and gold insignia. This policeman’s coat was generous in front, allowing for a bulging stomach, and furled up on one side, allowing everyone to see the handle of his handgun. Robby had been in New York City not much more than a day and already had seen two handguns; in war-torn England, as he had heard Thadeus Lowry describe his homeland, Robby had never seen a gun. This policeman’s hat was different, too, not peaked to impale falling objects as is a London policeman’s hat, nor strapped under the chin to prevent its being pinched over a fence by students who believed pinching policemen’s hats the literary thing to do. This hat lay upon this policeman’s head in a much flatter way, as if nailed on to his head some years earlier with the stern injunction never to pry it up.

  Seeing a policeman standing over his cot gleaming down at him should have meant to Robby: Here is an arm of society into which a small boy might fling himself with full surety that Right would be done.

  However, simultaneously to awakening and finding the policeman over his bed, Robby awoke to other sensations. The first was hunger. Not just your usual what’s-for-dinner sort of hunger but a hunger sent up by a stomach which, having been well fed most of its existence, had been deprived of proper food for days adding to weeks, unable to accept what food had been sent to it, because of strategic wallowing, deprived further of proper food during long treks through snow and cold, and then fed bread, jam and tea, which only reminded the stomach that there was proper food in this world, food which could be properly taken and retained. That sort of hunger. The sort of hunger in which the stomach, having been reminded a few hours previously that food did exist, was wild with hope that it would soon be offered more. The stove atop Robby’s head was hot. The room was steamy. He smelled a smell, which, although a new smell to him, he recognized instantly as a delicious smell: the smell of things to put in his mouth, savor, chew, swallow, send to his stomach with warmest regards.

  He knew, as certainly as God was Episcopal, supper was in the offing.

  Therefore Robby was not that sure he was glad to see a policeman standing over his cot. His nasal perception argued with his visual perception. Had Marie and Frankie Savallo been taken up for questioning? Not now! Not in this crucial hour! Since having his future indicated to him by the Headmaster of Wolsley School, Robby’s education had increased only regarding the elusiveness of food. Clearly, now, he did not want to be rescued from supper!

  “Well, Marie,” said the policeman, removing his bulk from the airspace over the cot, “when you take to kidnapping, you don’t think very big. Sure, even by the pound I don’t think you’d get much for him.”

  Marie Savallo was setting places for four on the table. In his wheelchair, Frankie Savallo was turned away from the room, playing with the dial of a radio.

  The policeman investigated the pots and pans on the stove. “What’s this, Marie? More of Frankie’s Eye-talian food?”

  “More of Marie’s Irish stew,” said Frankie.

  “You’ll have supper with us?” Marie asked.

  “I’ll have a wee taste with you, just a smidgen, understand, before goin’ off to headquarters to confirm how hard I’ve been workin’ my shift.”

  “It’s all right, Will’um,” Frankie said. “Any brother of Marie’s is just like a member of the family.”

  “Thank you, Frankie,” Will’um said as he lowered himself into a seat at table. “I know what that concession means to you.”

  With hope of being fed before being rescued Robby sat on the edge of the cot and put on his shoes, regretting their lack of polish. He replaced his necktie. Robby was impressed by the civil manner in which this intrusion by the law into criminal matters was taking place. In a Christly manner the policeman was sitting down to break bread with the kidnappers. Difficult social matters hadn’t been so smoothly arranged even at Pladroman House. Robby put on his jacket.

  Then Robby realized Tony Savallo was gone from the other cot.

  Marie’s large, blue, wet, soulful eyes looked over at Robby. “Stirrin’, are you? You little darlin’. Come up to the table with Frankie and my brother, Will’um, and bring your appetite.”

  Frankie had turned off the radio and wheeled to the table.

  Robby considered it even more socially stressful that a genuine member of the family, Marie’s brother, had been sent over to make the arrest. But—Robby was used to people behaving decently under stressful circumstances.

  He sat at table himself.

  “Lissen, Will’um,” Frankie asked eagerly. “Did you read the article in the newspaper?”

  “I did, Frankie, I read it chapter and worse. It says ‘The Lord Is an Orphan,’ which is not news, if I remember my early religious training.”

  “Yeah. That’s the trouble, Will’um. Maybe you can think of somethin’.” Frankie sighed into his empty plate. “Has ransom ever been paid for an orphan, Will’um?”

  “Not that I remember, Frankie. Adopted orphans, of course, normally attract a better price than natural children, as adoptive parents usually go to greater, less pleasurable extents to have such children…” Will’um place
d a baleful gaze on Robby. “But this wee slip of a boy might be the sparrow, Frankie, who falls to earth and causes nothing but universal, human indifference.”

  “Poor wee bird,” muttered Marie at the stove. “Booted from the nest without his own wings.”

  “So you called the English Ambassador, Frankie,” led Will’um, rolling on his hams as if to test for places his supper might settle.

  “And I’m sure,” said Marie, coming from the stove with pans, “the minute he picked up the phone he got all over nervous and burst out in an Italian accent so thick no one had half a chance to understand him.”

  “Marie, why you say such a crazy thing?” protested Frankie loudly, with a heavy Italian accent.

  “Sure, and don’t you always, Frankie? The minute you get nervous you sound like the Pope in a cold shower.”

  Will’um laughed. “And how would my sister know how the Pope sounds in a cold shower?”

  Marie said, “I know he takes cold showers.”

  “You want to hear what I said to the Ambassador or not?”

  “Ah, there he goes, Marie: soundin’ like a Napoli thrush.”

  “You guys don’t have an accent?” asked Frankie.

  “Sure we do, Frankie. We speak English the way it’s meant to be spoken—with the authority of the Irish.”

  “Irish-American is okay, but Italian-American is no good, is that right?”

  “Calm down, Frankie, and tell us your story,” said Marie, ladling lamb and vegetables covered with melted cheese and tomato sauce on Robby’s plate, “in such a way we can understand it.”

  Robby leaned his head into the steam of the plate and closed his eyes. He wanted to be wrapped entirely in the atmosphere of food.

  “Look at the little darlin’, sayin’ his grace,” chortled Marie. “Isn’t he a beautiful child, Will’um?”

  The contempt in the policeman’s eyes cut through the steam of the plates. “He’s English,” he said, as if contemplating something for which you could pay one dollar and get two dollars in change.

  “Well, she can’t cook Italian,” Frankie muttered. He lifted part of his supper on a fork. “What is this?”

  “It’s lamb Parmesan, Frankie. Like your mother used to make.”

  “If my mother ever served my father such a thing,” announced Frankie loudly, “I would never have been born!”

  “Is it really that good?” Will’um said. “I must try some.”

  “Italian cooking,” protested Frankie. “Marie boils meat and potatoes, pours tomato and cheese over it, calls it Italian cooking!”

  Now that his host, Frankie, had picked up a fork, to attack his food but not eat it, Robby picked up his own fork. And Robby ate.

  Marie sat in her place. “Now, Frankie, you were saying…?”

  “I called the Ambassador. Down in Washington, D.C. Long distance on the phone. They call England the United Kingdom now. Bet you didn’t know that, Will’um.”

  “Sure,” said Will’um. “They’ve been callin’ the auld place the United Kingdom ever since it began splittin’ up. It’s like us chasin’ all the Indians out of the middle of the country and then callin’ the place Indiana. There’s no truth in names, Frank. Take your own, as a case in point.”

  “You stay calm, too, Will’um,” directed Marie. “Don’t we want to hear about the one hundred thousand dollars?”

  “I’d like to hear about that,” Will’um said dubiously.

  Robby was not too amazed that Will’um ate with his hat on. Indeed it did look as if it had been nailed to his head. Besides, Robby’s parents had had a frequent guest at Pladroman House, Rabbi Michael, who always ate with his hat on. Rabbi Michael had a melodic voice and always said he only came to Pladroman House for the eclairs. Robby was amazed, however, that Will’um ate while still wearing his handgun. Through dinner, while savoring, chewing, swallowing, Robby sneaked looks at Will’um’s handgun.

  Frankie said, “I goes: Ambassador, this is the biggest gangster in New York!”

  Will’um asked, “You gave him your name, Frankie?”

  Frankie blushed. “You think I’m stupid?”

  Will’um glanced at the wheelchair and the telephone by the front door. “But you did call from here?”

  “We keep that telephone in case anything happens to Frankie when I’m not here,” Marie said. “Dreadful expense it is, too.”

  “It’s a wonder the police aren’t at the door this minute,” said the man in the policeman’s uniform, under a policeman’s hat, wearing a policeman’s badge and gun, eating his dinner at the Savallos’ table. “If you hear a noise, Frankie, quick slip into me handcuffs—or we’ll both be in trouble!”

  “I goes: Ambassador, you tell George the King we got a little friend of his who likes strawberry jam—Duke…I still forget his name…and if he doesn’t cough up a lot of money he’ll never see his friend again.”

  “How much money, Frankie?” Marie asked. “How much money did you demand?”

  Frankie blushed. “A hundred thousand dollars.”

  Sitting back on his chair, beefy hand on Robby’s shoulder, Will’um asked, “Did you actually threaten to kill the child, Frankie?”

  Red-faced, Frankie looked apologetically at Robby, who continued to eat his dinner. “Of course I did.”

  “That’s the important thing, Frankie.” Will’um shook Robby’s shoulder affectionately. “You’ve really got to threaten to slaughter the tyke. Make it graphic, in the tellin’. You’ve got to say if they don’t pay up, first you’ll slice off his ears, then chop off his fingers, his toes, one by one, then chop off his hands, his feet, pluck out his eyes. And if they don’t pay up at all you’ll sever his head from his body and send it to them in a parcel.” Will’um patted the back of Robby’s neck. “That’s the way to do it, Frankie.”

  Robby ate quicker.

  “Very instructive, Will’um,” said Marie Savallo. “That’s why I went out and found Will’um in the street, Frankie, and had him home to supper. He has so much more experience in the law than we have.”

  “Is that about what you said to the Ambassador, Frankie?” Will’um asked.

  Frankie swallowed. “Sure. I didn’t play around none. He knew I meant business. I told him we want money for the kid.”

  “And what was the Ambassador’s name, Frankie?” asked Will’um.

  “I don’t know,” Frankie said. “How many ambassadors from England are there?”

  “Only the one.”

  “He was the Ambassador, all right,” insisted Frankie. “He talked like he had a mouthful of marbles.”

  “Proof enough,” said Will’um.

  “And what did the Ambassador say?” asked Marie. “What arrangement did you make to get the one hundred thousand dollars?”

  Frankie looked at the center of the table, swallowed, looked at the floor each side of him, swallowed again. Lamely, he said, “I told him I’d call him back in a day or two.”

  Marie stared at her husband, at her brother, and at her husband again.

  Will’um said, “I don’t believe a word of it.”

  “Believe it!” Frankie shouted. “End of the month I’ll give you my telephone bill! Long distance to Washington!”

  “Well…” said Will’um.

  “You’re a cop! Believe in the evidence! Even my brother, Tony, knows that! Even in his sleep, Tony says, ‘No evidence. There’s no evidence’!”

  “Shush, Frankie!” Marie gasped. “You’re not supposed to mention your brother to my brother! Tony’s a draft-dodger, mind you, and Will’um here is in the law!”

  Suddenly, Frankie’s face went white. He sat forward and put his elbows on the table. His eyes sought out, searched Will’um’s.

  “Honest to God, Will’um, we haven’t seen Tony in months.” Frankie was speaking rapidly. “Last we heard from him he was in Colorado, Texas—”

  “Sure, Frankie.” Will’um waved Frankie’s mouth closed with his hand. “And he works for your Uncle Guido and hasn�
��t been seen since this mornin’ on Second Avenue.”

  “Tony?” Frankie looked pleased. “You say Tony’s in town? Hey, Tony! Maybe he’ll stop by, see us, Marie!”

  “Honest, Will’um,” added Marie. “We never see Tony.”

  “Speaking of evidence…” Will’um cleared his throat. “I observe that there are three beds in this room. Who’s the third one for? The maid?”

  Frankie and Marie looked at each other.

  “That’s for the kid,” Frankie said, nodding toward Robby.

  “But the bed was here last week,” Will’um said. “And the kid wasn’t.”

  “Well,” laughed Frankie. “We were hopin’ you’d stay overnight, Will’um.”

  “The bed’s been there a long time,” said Will’um.

  “For a long time we been hopin’ you’d stay overnight,” insisted Frankie.

  “And that’s all I’ll hear about evidence from you, Frank Savallo.” Will’um pushed his plate away with his thumb.

  Fluttering, Marie stood up. She grabbed Robby’s plate. “You’d like some more, wouldn’t you, darlin’?”

  “I would, ma’am. I missed tea.”

  “Sure, and doesn’t he eat like an Eye-talian, though?” mused Will’um. “Now you see it; now you don’t. Food on his plate comes and goes just like that will-o-the-wisp brother of yours, Frankie.”

  “And without spillin’ a drop, Will’um,” Marie said from the stove. “Did you notice?”

  “He eats like a cop,” said Frankie, softly. “The kind who clean out a grocery store without stoppin’ at the cash register.”

  Marie put a filled plate in front of Robby. And Robby ate.

  Sitting down at her place at table, Marie asked, “Do you have any ideas, Will’um?”

  “What does he know?” scoffed Frankie. “He’s a flatfoot! A cop! Your brother!”

  “Indeed I do have an idea,” said Will’um. “One I think that would work and get you your one hundred thousand dollars. For your old age, Marie.”

  “Do you, now?”